not yet a love poem
wake me every morning, just like this
river water blooms across my doorstep
and those, little fingerprints of rain,
come across my window,
like this.
just rest your hands
here, like this.
those woodlands, grasslands, mountain lands,
orchards, canyons, your body, flowered fruit
of memory, what hasn’t happened yet
i remember, like a dog chasing
after it’s tail.
this morning runs like water from me,
these words must be specks of rain.
i remember what isn’t to happen,
what already happened, yet.
they tell me poems told to the master
cannot be refused on a day like this.
don’t refuse me now, dear heart,
this song of the nesting birds.